


Kiss It Better

by AbbyDebeaupre



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fergus returns the favor, First Time, Jamie surprises Fergus, Missing moments followed by missing smut, Rhymes with Parsley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:05:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbbyDebeaupre/pseuds/AbbyDebeaupre
Summary: The MacKimmies moved to Balriggan when Marsali was eight and lived there for nearly ten years before Jamie returns to Lallybroch and is reintroduced to Laoghaire but, of course, Fergus met her long before then.





	Kiss It Better

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, I have aged Marsali up.

 

Fergus remembers the first time he saw them, standing off to the side of the room, near the warm fireplace. The girls were in what were clearly new frocks, hair freshly washed and trying to make a good impression. The older one was around ten, her sister a bit younger, both petite, like their mother.

 

Laoghaire MacKimmie, widowed for several years, had finally, with the venerable solicitor Ned Gowan’s help, convinced the Scottish tribunal to recognize her claim to her late husband’s estate. Laoghaire wore a dress at least five years out of date, but made of good quality material and stitched with an expert’s eye. Fergus could see the woman was unaccustomed to being in such boisterous company.

 

“A cup of ale, milady?” He held his arm out to her.

 

When Laoghaire noticed his handsome face, she returned the smile, introducing herself and her daughters.

 

“Yer no’ from here, then?” she asked.

 

“Non, I am originally from Paris, but have lived at Lallybroch for many years,” Fergus explained.

 

“The countryside must seem dull by comparison,” Laoghaire ventured, looking up at him from behind her lashes.

 

“I am content. I work with the horses and take Mistress Murray’s wool to market.”

 

The littlest one, trying to twirl to the lively music of the fiddler, tripped on her hem and Fersus’s left hand shot out to catch her.

 

“What happened to yer hand?” she gasped.

 

Laoghaire’s eyes followed her daughter’s and a flush turned her face a deep shade of pink. Like many people, she grew awkward upon seeing his affliction. She gently pulled Joanie away from him, trying to smile and pretend she wasn’t doing so.

 

“Come, dears, we must pay our respects to our host.” Laoghaire quickly shuffled both the girls across the room to greet Jamie Murray.

 

Fergus did not let her reaction bother him, he was used to it. An outlander no matter how long he’d been on these lands, most folk had generally accepted his presence. He had been well cared for, Jenny and Ian fulfilling his master’s promise made to him over a decade earlier.

 

Thoughts of what had become of Jamie Fraser often plagued Fergus’s mind.  They had heard he’d been taken to Ardsmuir prison, but it had been years since anyone had seen or heard from him. A great many things could happen to a man in a place such as that. As he turned back to the dancing, a voice called out to him.

 

“So what happened to the hand, then?”  It was the older one. She had pale blonde hair, as straight and thick as her sister’s fiery main, huge blue eyes and a small button nose.

 

“I am sorry, miss, but I have forgotten your name?”

 

“Marsali,” she told him.

 

“ _Mars-ley?_ Not Mar-sal-ee?”

 

“Are ye trying to suggest I dinna ken my own name?” Her blue eyes were blazing and Fergus felt a bit flustered.

 

“Non. When I saw it on the list Mistress Murray keeps of families newly arrived, I just thought it would be said the other way,” he explained.

 

“Marsli,” she repeated, “rhymes with parsley. We can try and find other herbs to rhyme with our names or ye can tell me what happened to your hand.”

 

“Redcoats.”

 

Her mouth fell open but she was temporarily rendered speechless, a condition that he would come to realize was uncommon for her.

 

“Why?” she finally asked when she found her voice.

 

“When do such _putain_ need a reason?” Fergus asked.

 

“My Da was killed at Culloden,” Marsali told him.

 

“Then you know. Many good men were taken that day,” Fergus acknowledged.

 

“You were there?” she breathed. It was rare to find anyone still living in the highlands with firsthand knowledge.

 

“I marched with the Prince’s army to the field but was a courier and dispatched before the battle began.” Fergus’s eyes no longer saw the girl standing before him, lost in a long ago memory. He was brought back to the present by a gentle throat clearing.

 

“Will you tell me what it was like?” Marsali put a hand out to touch his arm. From the corner of his eye, Fergus noticed Laoghaire's sharp look.

 

“Perhaps, _mon petit chou_ , but not tonight. Your mother requires your attention.” He gestured with his chin.

 

Fergus and Marsali would meet many more times over the next ten years. Her mother never warmed up to him, despite the fact that he and Michael and Young Ian would come around to help the family once a month or so. Yet, he and Marsali had formed an odd kind of friendship.

 

He appreciated her cleverness and outspoken ways, which belied her youth. Being around her was like being at home in Mistress Murray’s kitchen. Fergus did as he normally would, listening with half an ear as she let off steam until she told him everything she had been holding inside her since the last time they spoke.

 

She was starved for attention. Anyone could see it. Unlike most Scots of his acquaintance, Laoghaire seemed uninterested in having any prolonged discussions; all her interactions were succinct. He’d never heard her tell a single story about herself or the children. The only book in their house was the family Bible, handed down to Laoghaire by her Grandma FitzGibbons. She was a good mother, he’d give her that; the girls had clean clothes, were well fed, polite and mannered in company but, in general, she was not overly affectionate nor indulgent. When injured or in need of a sympathetic ear, Marsali, more often than not, would seek him out and ask him to care for her scrapes and soothe her hurt.

 

The first time it happened, Marsali had been climbing a fence and her skirt caught on a broken post. She stumbled into the barn sniveling and limping.

 

“Come, _mon chou_ , you need tending.” Fergus set aside the tack he’d been sorting and led her to a hay bale, grabbing the kit he usually stored in his saddle bag. He quickly cleaned the wound, tsking and murmuring as he did so, letting her tell him all about it.

 

“Marsali, I want you to count to three then take a deep breath for me,” he told her.

 

She shot him a suspicious look. “Why?”

 

“Because I must do this and it will hurt a bit.” Fergus reached for the flask, hesitating over her cut.

 

“Oh, no! Ye canna be thinking—-“

 

“I am. It will prevent inflammation.”

 

“No, Fergus, I dinna ken what they do in France, but we dinna do any such thing here,” she protested, pulling away from him.

 

“Do not kick! It is not ladylike!” he scolded, firmly pushing her leg down.

 

“If ye dinna let go, I’ll be doing something even less ladylike in a minute,” she warned, still struggling. Fergus could see it was going to be an uphill battle.

 

“Please, _mon chaton_ , sheathe your claws. I learned this trick from the prince’s own personal healer. Everyone knew of her. She tended both the English and the Scots, all respected her skills, including King Louis!”

 

“How would ye ken anything about the King of France?”

 

“I saw him with my own two eyes.”

 

“Yer joking!”

 

“Non. I will make you a deal. Let me do this properly and I will tell you a story about the time I stole a horse in front of the entire French court, including the King, and almost got myself killed.” His eyes dared her to accept. When she nodded, he didn’t hesitate and poured it at once,

 

“Ow!” she shrieked and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, that hurts!” She was weeping earnestly now. Fergus felt terrible. “It burns something fierce, Please, make it stop!” she begged. Frantically, he thought. Then he remembered Milady and the one thing that always worked.

 

“Shall I kiss it better?” He leaned down, wrapping her wound in linen then pressed his lips gently on the bandage.

 

In the years since, Fergus had taken care of all sorts of insults and injuries that befell the MacKimmie sisters. Each time he used a remedy Claire had shown him, he imagined her delight that he’d actually paid attention while they’d been on campaign. Fergus would customarily start by telling Marsali a diversionary tale and then always Marsali would lean in and let him kiss it better.  

 

Over time, Fergus shared much of his past with Marsali. He spoke of Murtagh and Milord, of fond memories that made him laugh and others that made him melancholy. Marsali had heard of Red Jamie, of course, and was thrilled with Fergus’s endless supply of vignettes about Paris and the Rising. Though gently reared, Marsali was not sheltered nor was she ignorant. She barely batted an eye when, a few years before, he told her he’d been born in a brothel. They’d had many a frank conversation since then about the nature of men.  Fergus knew, as much from what she didn’t tell him as what she had shared, that her mother had not been treated with kindness by her husbands.

 

Milord had been gone well over a decade now and Fergus began spending less time at Lallybroch. He was no farmer and no charity case. He tried his luck in Inverness, Glasgow, and Edinburgh. A charming, handsome man, Fergus found all manner of diversion in larger cities. While never quite settled, he was less restless. Still, Mistress Murray insisted he visit regularly and when he was home Fergus always made time to check in at Balriggan.

 

When Marsali was sixteen, she no longer resembled a spirited sprite forever falling in and out of trouble. A measured grace and care over her appearance told Fergus she had become aware of how attractive she was.  When she started to fluttering her long eyelashes at him, he quickly scolded her.

 

“Practice your feminine charms elsewhere, _sil vous plaint_.”  

 

“I dinna ken what ye mean?” she batted away. “I have a new bruise,” she told him holding out a delicate hand, “will you kiss it better?”

 

Fergus almost laughed, it was a near thing but he bit the inside of his mouth just in time.

 

“I came to see my friend Marsali and if she is not here today I shall go. If she does come back, you may send word to Lallybroch.” Fergus made to leave.

 

“Yer being a numpty!” She laughed but dropped her femme fatale moves at once and their easy camaraderie was re-established.

 

By eighteen, Marsali had a reputation as an independent and sharp-tongued woman. More than once he had heard men in the tavern near Broch Mordha declare that if she were a daughter of theirs they would tan her black and blue for the things she dared say out loud.  Especially galling was her lack of gratitude to her Uncle Hobart for his role in trying to arrange a suitable marriage for her. Not once, not twice, but three times now, she had rejected perfectly acceptable offers.

 

To Fergus’s surprise, Laoghaire had taken Marsali’s side, finally convincing Hobart to stop his meddling and allow Marsali to choose her own husband. Unkind neighbors gossiped that Marsali had no time to waste, little Joanie would be married before her older sister while she turned into an old maid. Thus, it was a great surprise when the MacKimmie house announced upcoming nuptials and the bride turned out to be the last person Fergus had expected, with the notable exception of the groom, that is.

 

Seeing Jamie Fraser standing next to Marsali’s mother about to be declared man and wife was as close to an out of body experience for him as Fergus could imagine. Marsali noticed his last minute entrance and wriggled her eyebrows at him, a huge smile plastered on his face. _Red Jamie in the flesh!_ her expression seemed to say.

 

His mind immediately conjured up a memory of long ago, Marsali was maybe twelve then and they’d had one of their biggest fights ever.

 

“My mam says that she was meant to marry Laird Broch Tuarach, but he was bewitched by an evil hag!”

 

“You are very much mistaken, Marsali,” Fergus informed her in a haughty tone he rarely used with her.

 

“I am not. Mam says she was kent as the Stuart Witch and shoulda been burnt at the stake but escaped the Lord’s judgment.”

 

“Milady was many things, compassionate and courageous most of all, but she was not a witch and Milord loved her more than his own life.”

 

“She...you _knew_ her?”

 

“Who do you think was the healer known far and wide by prince and pauper alike?” Fergus asked.

 

“All this time ye’ve been using potions and tricks ye kent from a witch!” Marsali jumped to her feet, red faced and fists clenched at her sides.

 

“As you have been the one receiving the most benefit from what she taught me, you will keep a civil tongue in your head!” Fergus roared back.

 

“Or what?” Marsali shot back, finding her temper difficult to reign in.   

 

“I will treat you like the ungrateful child you are,” he sneered, and his eyes held a coldness she had never seen.

 

Marsali’s mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. One of reasons she liked Fergus so much was he never talked down to her. He was one of the few men she knew well and, unlike her Uncle Hobart, he always seemed happy to spend time with her. Fergus’s assessment of her stung. To their mutual surprise, hot, angry tears started spilling down her cheeks.  Fergus had no idea what to do. He hated seeing her upset under any circumstances, but he felt guilty for yelling, which made him feel resentful, so he just stood there.

 

“Well, if that’s how ye feel about me Fergus, I’ll no’ pester ye again,” she said, moving past him with a careful dignity that made him immediately contrite, but he didn’t stop her.

 

As she reached the barn door, he said very quietly, “She was the one who taught me that a kiss always made it better.”

 

Shrugging out of his reverie, Fergus looked up in time to see Jamie place a ring on Laoghaire’s finger. Milord did not, he noticed, kiss his bride. He watched as the Murrays all crowded around to wish the couple happy.  When Jamie noticed him, he gave out a soft cry of joy and pulled him at once into a warm embrace, embarrassingly introducing Fergus to the family he’d known so well for a decade.

 

With Milord now living at Balriggan, Fergus ended up spending more time on the estate in the past few months than he had in the last few years added all together. It was a bittersweet living arrangement.  Not that the loft above the stables wasn’t comfortable. It was.

 

But Balriggan, never a cozy or welcoming place, had turned cold and dark. Fergus had prayed that the marriage would be good for Milord. He knew from his own experience a sated man could overlook any number of disappointments in life. Milord’s second marriage was not a happy relationship, nor physically satisfying.

 

One of the things Fergus had always admired about Jamie was his ability to mask his feelings; not even by the look in his eyes did he reveal what he was thinking. Yet the man who lived at Balriggan was no longer that man. Jamie could not keep disappointment from showing on his face nor keep the acid from his tongue. Jamie and Laoghaire barked at one another like angry dogs. Raised voices, shattered crockery, and slamming doors had become common noises around the estate. It broke Fergus’s heart when he thought of the happy life Milord had known with Milady.  

 

Jamie refused to discuss the situation with anyone, not even Jenny. Laoghaire wasn’t a woman who inspired sympathy to be sure, but the bitter pall that hung over the house wasn’t a situation entirely of her own making. Fergus knew they were all suffering. Joanie seemed to age out of childhood overnight. No longer a bright little doe, she reminded him more of a withdrawn little mouse these days, and Marsali hardly laughed anymore. Fergus longed to be able to do something to make things better.   

 

Perhaps the house’s tainted atmosphere was the reason why Marsali started spending more and more time roaming the fields, claiming a small corner of the barn to make candles and soap. She was experimenting with flowers and herbs.

 

The smell of mint and honey reminded Fergus of Claire. She’d been in his mind a lot lately. He had gone years without thinking of her but it was as if Mmilord’s return had opened the floodgates. Maybe it was just the stark contrast between the joy he and Mmilord had found in Mmilady’s company and the misery that was Balriggan that had done that. When Marsali bustled around her work tables, moving with a confident air of purpose, he thought of Claire, and for the first time in a long time, it felt a bit like home.

 

Marsali liked to work in the barn when she knew no one but Fergus would be around. He looked forward to hearing her puttering and muttering under her breath, pretending not to watch her as much as she pretended not to notice him as he repaired tack and groomed the horses.

 

Being around her made him ache with longing. She was beautiful. There were times he'd walk into the barn and catch his breath at the sight of her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, defying every attempt at confinement. Her smile, increasingly rare, had the power to make him forget what he was supposed to be doing. More than once she’d been unable to hold back a laugh seeing him tripping over a forgotten rake or stumbling into a hay bail. Sometimes he exaggerated his clumsiness just to lighten her day. But it was getting harder to coax her grin and he missed her quick wit. If only he could put roses back in her cheeks and a smile on her lips.

 

**************

He heard the whimper before he caught sight of her in the far corner of the barn.  She was hunched over and moaning. Her face was streaked with tears.

 

“Marsali? _Mon Dieu!”_ Fergus dropped at once to his knees beside her. He gently pulled her hands off her face and winced. “Did the whole hive swarm at once?” He tried to keep his tone light, but there was no hiding the look on his face when her eyes met his.

 

“Aye, the wind came up and all my smoke went the other way and the bees woke up---- ow! that hurts!” Marsali leaned away from Fergus as he shifted closer.

 

He had no idea the effect he had on her. Growing up, he was like a character in a book--dashing, romantic mysterious---the French boy orphaned twice over before finally finding a place to call home. He was also charming, funny, and sweet in a way no highland lad ever could be.

 

When Fergus left for Inverness a few years ago, she thought she’d never see him again, that he’d gone back to France and she knew she would miss her friend. But every few months he came back to see the Murrays and whenever she caught sight of him, his straight back and loose hair flying over the moor on his way to see them, her heart squeezed in her chest and she could not keep the smile from her lips.

 

Marsali wasn’t sure when her view of him changed exactly, but she now had…. _feelings_ for him. He made her belly flutter and her pulse leap and when he placed his body close to hers, like he was doing now, she wanted nothing so much as to feel his arms pulling her to him, holding her, _kissing_ \----- Marsli looked away from his mouth, biting her own lip.  He likely thought she was putting a brave front on it-- trying to stop her tears but the truth was she had to do _something_ to stop her wanton thoughts.

 

Fergus cast his eyes from crown to waist, cataloguing her injuries. He made a little tutting sound. She had at least five welts on her from what he could see.  

 

“Where are the tongs?” he asked, looking around for the tiny pinchers she kept in her kit.

 

“Ye dinna have to,” Marsali protested, “I am perfectly capable of looking after a few bee stings!”

 

“Oui, but there is one just here.” Fergus, so very gently,  rested his fingertip on the juncture between her neck and clavicle.  She looked down in reflex, but, of course, couldn’t see anything without a mirror, which she didn’t have.

 

“It will not stop hurting unless tended to.” Fergus’s voice held a small edge of scolding in it, no doubt remembering all her clumsy accidents over the years. She, too, remembered. Most of all, that he always kissed it better afterward. “May I?” His soft brown eyes pleaded with her and Marsali understood then that he liked taking care of her, it somehow made _him_ feel better, too.  

 

Marsali handed him the tongs and he carefully edged her hair out of the way and then pushed at the cleavage of her dress to get his fingers in position. She heard the huff of a soft French curse, the fabric shifted and shuffled a bit. Another curse. Marsali jumped when those fingers fanned over the back of her neck then skipped lower to where her buttons were.

 

“I am sorry, I can’t quite get it, may I?” he inquired.  

 

“Oh….well, aye, if ye need.” Marsali closed her eyes, she couldn’t help it. The slow touch of him as he unfastened first one button, then another, in that careful, deliberate way he moved with only the one working hand made her skin tingle.

 

She could feel his thighs butting against her side, the warm heat in contrast to the cool breath she now felt on the back of her neck as he exposed the column of her throat one tiny button at a time. Gooseflesh arose and spread down her arms and Fergus emitted a strangled sound as he carefully parted the dress from the top of her shoulder.  

 

Then nothing happened. Marsali opened her eyes and turned her head to find him, raised pinchers in hand just staring down her naked shoulder. She wanted to laugh-- to say this was just a shoulder, for goodness sakes, Lord kent growing up in a brothel he’d seen every single part of a woman before-- and many times over. But her throat had gone dry. She managed to make a loud huffing exhale and his eyes flew to hers, his face reddened, and Marsali realized she’d never seen him blush. Unfortunately, her cheeks were also growing hotter as he looked.

 

“Well, are ye going to help me or just stare?” she asked.

 

“Pardon!” Fergus moved his eyes back to her sting and managed to get it out and he simply moved on to the next one at her wrist, then the back of her hand, going efficiently from spot to spot. He grazed the inside of her elbow and she let out a surprise “Eep!”

 

“Ticklish?” he said.

 

“And what if I am?” she challenged, flicking her hand playfully.

 

“Are there others?” Fergus asked, seeing her shift uncomfortably. Marsali looked away.

 

“Well, since ye willna take no for an answer, ye may as well get the ones on my legs, too.”  
  
“Ah,” Fergus said with aplomb, “I will need to lift these?” Said more as a statement than an inquiry, and something bedeviled Marsali to respond in like fashion.

 

“Will you?” She was gratified to hear the note of challenge in her voice. “Or do you need me to do it for you?”

 

“Oh, non, Marsali, it will be my pleasure.” Fergus’s eyes sparkled and she wondered if he had deliberately placed an emphasis on the word _pleasure_. His fingers moved very slowly to the hem of her dress and he worked the cloth up over her knees. Marsali watched him in breathless anticipation.

 

“So, mint?” Fergus asked.

 

“Aye?” Marsali’s brain finally understood his question.  “I think it may do, the honeysuckle and heather is still the most popular one.”

 

“I enjoy watching you work. Although you spend most of your time by yourself, you seem….content out here.”

 

“I ken I do my chores and you do yours but even if we dinna speak often, I ken how ye keep me company most days. I am no’ alone and aye, I am content,” she agreed.

 

Fergus crawled over until he was kneeling between her spread legs. Then he reached his hand all the way to the top of her thigh where her stocking was tied in a bow. He deftly flicked his fingers and it loosened. Marsali gasped and the thrill of his touch whispered soft as a feather against her. Bumps spread over her arms while he rolled the wool down her thigh, her knee, then past her calf at her ankle he hesitated.  

 

“I don’t _think_ my feet were stung,” she told him.

 

“Perhaps not, but... I should check to be sure,” Fergus decided.

  
“Are those my toes or more welts?” Marsali teased in a broken sigh.

 

“I haven’t looked. I think I should start at the….top,” he told her, scooting forward again, palming the fabric of her hem resting just above her knees and moving it higher….and higher still.

 

For an insane minute, Marsali thought he was going to push her skirts _all_ the way up.  He may as well have done, for she was just a flick of his wrist from being completely revealed.

 

Something forbidden skittered in her chest watching his eyes travel down expanse of her limbs and then slowly back the other way.

 

“Tsk!” he exclaimed, noting a large spot on her inner thigh. Marsali knew she should be mortified, should stop him because she probably could get that one out herself, but she wanted to feel his fingers on her skin again and instead she found herself spreading her legs in invitation.  

 

Fergus let out an uneasy breath and shook his head like a dog coming out of a millpond. He grabbed the pinchers and went to work, but could not seem to get it. Marsali lifted her leg up a bit to help just as he shifted down. He let out an audible breath she felt on her leg. Hot and moist, it made her take note of the changes happening to her own body the longer this went on. Marsali understood now what her mother meant when she went on and on about the dangers of “carnal thoughts.”

 

Fergus’s wooden hand rolled her skin tighter and his other one finally managed to grasp the stinger.  He pulled hard and she yelped.

 

“Oh! Pardon,” he exclaimed. “Are you alright?”

 

Marsali’s eyes were a little teary. “Do I seem alright to ye?” But it was said with such a pitiful warble, he knew she was hurt.  

 

“Shall I get some ointment?”

 

“Why don't ye just kiss it better?” she snapped, embarrassed to have cried in front of him again. Their eyes locked together and the air was suddenly charged between them.

 

Fergus dipped his head and inhaled very sharply then moaned and inhaled once more.  An unbearable tenseness rose in Marsali and she shifted her bottom to try and relieve her discomfort.

 

“It has been a time since last I did so,” he said, staring up at her face, trying to read whatever it was he saw there.

 

“It always worked,” she told him now, noticing that his fingers were gently rubbing her leg just above the sting.

 

The edges of his nails were so high up they were practically in the crease next to her secret place. For a mad minute, Marsali thought about tilting her hips just so.

 

“I should get the other stings. It will hurt less if I do it all at once.” His thumb kept rhythmically caressing her inner thigh. She noticed this time he started at the bottom of her feet. He found three more, including one just above her knee.

 

“Is that all of them?” she asked.

 

“Oui.” Fergus nodded but his hand stayed clasped around her limb. “Do they still hurt?” He was giving her such an intense stare, that her heart started racing once more.

 

“Yes,” she breathed, her lips parting.  

 

“Shall I make it better?” he dared.

 

In answer, Marsali raised a leg, opening so he could reach his head down. She held his gaze, urging him to act. Fergus kissed the knee he’d just been holding.

 

“Better?” he asked.

 

“A little, you forgot a spot,” she said.

 

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” he replied and jumped down to her calf. “Here is one of them.” His lips lingered over her skin this time prolonging his kiss.

 

He shifted up to her hand, and on this one, she felt his lips part and his tongue softly flick. “And this is another,” he noted.

 

“Don’t forget the one we started with. It’s just here.” She moved her arm and the dress fell off her shoulder. “Oooh,” she panted softly as he kissed her with a tender, lingering touch that did the oddest things between her legs.

 

“How is that?” Fergus whispered against her ear and she could hear the same yearning ache in his voice that had lodged in her heart.

 

“More,” she urged bending her neck. His lips fasted against her and this time her nipples responded. Was it always like this? Surely not or else she’d have heard the other lasses talk of it well before now.   

 

Fergus kissed the bottom of her jaw, the apple of her cheek, then a soft, almost chaste meeting of her own lips followed.  She made a moan of protest, wanting a real kiss from him. She parted her lips to tell him just that when his tongue slipped right inside. A shocked sound escaped her throat and she melted into his embrace.

 

Her fingers reached upward and tangled in the back of his head, pulling him closer, feeling the soft curls that rested over the collar of his jacket. The kiss went on and on and she felt around the front of him and unbuttoned his coat, shrugging it off his shoulder while he showed her how to flick her tongue over the bottom and then the top of his lip. Marsali put her hands on his chest, reveling in the heat of him through his soft linen shirt. Her hand rested against his heart to feel it thumping just like hers.

 

“I…” Fergus broke the kiss, eyes dazed. “I need to….”

 

“To?” Marsali echoed, fingers stroking against his shirt, reaching up to his neck and unfastening his stock.

 

“Tend the rest of your hurts,” Fergus told her in a shaky explanation. He moved down to the inside of her elbow, effectively stopping her fingers from undoing the buttons of his shirt. She didn’t complain when he bent back between her legs to kiss her her calf, moving up to her knee. As his lips travelled upward she became….not scared exactly, more like nervous and unsure and shifted her weight back. She regretted it instantly, she didn’t want him to stop but needed some kind of reassurance and yet had no words to ask it of him.

 

“Shall I get the tincture to rub on your skin?” he wondered.

 

“It still hurts,” Marsali agreed.

 

Fergus came back to her and she opened the tin for him, gesturing for him to help himself. She watched as his finger dipped into the balm and he rubbed his thumb over forefinger, back and forth, warming it, softening it. She panted as he moved his hand over her wound in slow, deliberate healing circles on her skin. Over and up, coating the entire area and working the salve into it.

 

She closed her eyes. “Feels good.”

 

“Does it?” Fergus soothed the skin along both her legs, moving a little harder whenever she made that little hum of contentment.

 

“Show me where else,” he asked after a time. Marsali looked at him. His face was flushed and his throat bobbed when he swallowed. His tongue darted along his lower lip. She cast her eyes downward and shrugged, letting her dress fall completely down both shoulders. She touched her chin to her chest.

 

“Here.”  She heard him sigh as his finger dipped deeper into the pot. The way his thumb rubbed his own pointer mesmerizing. She tried to ignore the pulse and drum of her core and focused instead on the circles his fingertips drew just above her breast.

 

Fergus was memorized, no doubt he could see how taut her nipples had grown. She gently stroked her own hand across her breast, thrumming the front peak.

 

“It didna hurt here before,” she started to explain.

 

“But now it does?”  Marsali nodded then sighed when Fergus dipped into the gap between her stays and her cleavage. “Good?”

 

“Yes,” Marsali nodded. She canted her body upwards, urging his hand to keep going.

 

He moved lower and lower until his hand cupped her entire breast. Marsali made that humming noise again and moaned, his thumb flicking over and over in tight circles.  He pushed the top of her dress completely off and let it rest against her waist.

 

“ _Mon dieu_ , Marsali, you're so beautiful.”

 

“When you look at me that way, I feel beautiful,”

 

Fergus smiled at her and gently laid her down, stretching himself against her side. The cool air rippled over her body. She didn’t feel nervous at all any more. Or shy when he looked at her that way, only wanting him to touch her more, to show him every inch of herself.  

 

She wasn’t quite bold enough to remove the dress herself, though. He moved his hand over her shoulders, neck, arms, circling the tender bare flesh of her stomach, the outside of her leg and then stretching against the sensitive skin of the inner thigh. He watched her face as she bit her lip and tried to keep quiet.  

 

Marsali didn't dare breathe, willing his fingers to touch that throbbing spot between her legs that had turned slick and started to swell when his fingers first touched her and was soaking by now. He flirted just outside the place, moving her hem up and up, teasing her.

 

“Feeling better?”

 

“A bit,” she managed.

 

“All the stingers are out,” he reminded her.

 

“Please Fergus,” she opened her eyes then and looked directly at him, wanting him to see her need. She loved the feel of him laying against her, just the thin layer of his shirt separating their bodies. A soft exhale left his lips and he moved to caress the hair from her forehead. His face dipped down until she could feel his lips forming the words coming from them.

 

“Tell me petit.” He hovered just above her mouth, smelling the soap she made and the tang of the balm he rubbed over her wounds. His fingers walked all the way up her inner leg and rested so lightly against her center she wasn’t sure if she was feeling him or the heat of his hand. “Shall I kiss it better?”

 

She nodded, letting her knees fall open and pulling his mouth back to hers, unable to stop the wanton arching of her hips into his hand, “Touch me, please, I ache so, Fergus.”  

  
"Mm-hmm." She closed her eyes when his lips fastened over her nipple and his tongue swirled over and over the tight buds of her breasts. His fingers darted from under her skirt without stroking her secret place, but before she could register her disappointment, she felt the pinching of a nipple.

 

“Oh, Fergus!” She moaned.

 

“Like that?”

 

“Yes, it makes me shiver and grow tight,” she said, being honest and not bothering to filter her words.

 

“Where?” he asked breathlessly.

 

Marsali moved her palm flat against her belly. “Here,” she told him. His hand covered hers at once, and then she felt the flick of his tongue across her stomach. She flittered over her hip. “Here, too,” she said. His mouth followed her fingers. She put both hands on her breasts and pushed the nipples forward, loving how dark his eyes grew and the possessive, almost feral look on his face. He growled this time as his tongue dragged over and around first the one, then the other.

 

“What else aches, Marsali?” he whispered.

 

She stared at him for a few seconds, then dropped her hands to the hem of her dress, resting at the tops of her thighs. Her bottom rose off the ground and she slipped the dress completely up, revealing the soft blonde hair between her legs.  

 

“Its so swollen, here.” She pointed. “Like a throbbing…. Not pain exactly, but it willna go away and is only getting worse.”

 

“Show me,” Fergus demanded. Her fingers hesitated. “I want to help you, Marsali, show me the place that aches and leaves you hurting.”

 

Marsali moaned when her fingers slid up against her center. She’d never felt it so slippery.

 

“Oh my god!” She cried out as Fergus’s tongue wriggled between her fingers and reached out to lick against her soaking core. He was moaning louder than she at this point.  His nose nuzzled against her hand and she moved out of the way. Her mind floated as he continued, the sensation overwhelming. His chin, his lips, the hair around his face every part of him felt different as he moved his mouth against her. He used firm flicks and long licks. He touched that button that made her lips go numb and then he darted his tongue just a little way _inside her_ and all she could do was moan helplessly. Her fingers wandered until they rested on the back of his head. She wanted to see him, needed him to look at her and she pulled his head up.

 

He came at once, stretching his body against her, slipping his leg between hers and nudging his thigh against her middle. He kissed her lips and she could smell herself, then reached out and was tasting herself against his face, moaning and panting as he working his leg on her for friction.

 

Her hands unbuttoned his shirt so she could feel his skin against hers. He was thrusting up and down along her body and her breasts responded to the feel of the hair on his chest. Her fingers worked the buttons of his pants. Some instinct spurred her on and when her hand clenched around his cock he cried out in absolute relief.

 

Everything stopped as he broke from their kiss and looked at her, his mouth open and his tongue licking his lips once, twice, then biting down hard trying to check his moans. His hips thrust into her hand.  

 

“You like that, Marsali?” he groaned out and kissed her with an urgency matching her own. “You hand feels so good on me, see how hard I have become?” he told her between kisses. “That’s for you, only you.”

 

“Make the wanting stop, Fergus, please,” she whispered against his ear, her hips trying to rub his leg.

 

“You are still a maid, Marsali.” He resisted.

 

“I dinna care, I need to feel this.” Marsali rubbed his cock in firm circles and tried to move him toward her entrance.

 

“No...no you must keep your maidenhead for your husband,” he told her even as he shifted his legs and lowered his hips over her. By instinct she placed his cock against her clit and started to move her hips, increasing the friction.

 

Marsali dipped her fingers between herself and him, over and over until he was slick with her.  When the head of his erection moved forcefully, but accidentally up and under her clit, a release of moisture from her center heightened the sensation and had both of them on the brink of coming.

 

“This feels so good, Fergus, please, help me.” Her eyes were unfocused and her chest flushed. She kissed him then, fingers still firmly around the based of his cock, pushing it unerringly up. Fergus braced himself and got her hand out of the way.

 

“Non, petit let me. I won’t go inside you. I’ll just….” Fergus positioned himself and started grinding against her folds, thrusting all the way up the outside of her core and pulling firmly back down.  At the midpoint, he rocked his hips side to side over and over that place that made her bite her lip and hold her breath and arch her hips off the ground round and round again. He made all kinds of noises in her ear when he dipped his head down to kiss her. The feel of his tongue floating across her lips as his hard length stroked against her wetness had her reaching for more...just a little more of this thrilling madness.

 

Fergus was concentrating on not slipping inside her, on the way her breasts touched his chest, on the firm, sure grip of her legs against his hips, on not coming until she did, on how good this felt. Her hands gripped his backside and pulled him into her.  Fergus couldn’t stop his cock from hitting her entrance.

 

They both cried out, Marsali’s high, desperate urgency did nothing to help his level of control.  Oh fuck, he felt the head spreading her outer lips apart, the tense resistance of her maidenhead and by pulling back managed to push himself out of danger but the slide had his balls tightening and he was too close to stop himself now. A wave of pleasure made it impossible to think any more. She was a golden light, spreading out before him, urging him to completion.

 

He watched her chest expand and then her mouth slipped open. He covered it in time to swallow the scream that exploded from her chest as she shuddered over and over against him. His cock jumped and pulsed helplessly spilling on her stomach with every rocking motion from her.

 

“Kiss me, Marsali,” he whispered when he could think once more, “nothing has ever felt better.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
